“I wonder what he would do?” Betty said again musingly.  She felt interested, not afraid.

“It would be something cunning,” Rosy protested.  “It would be something no one could expect.  He might be so rude that you could not remain in the room with him, or he might be quite polite, and pretend he was rather glad to see you.  If he was only frightfully rude we should be safer, because that would not be an unexpected thing, but if he was polite, it would be because he was arranging something hideous, which you could not defend yourself against.”

“Can you tell me,” said Betty quite slowly, because, as she looked down at the carpet, she was thinking very hard, “the kind of unexpected thing he has done to you?” Lifting her eyes, she saw that a troubled flush was creeping over Lady Anstruthers’ face.

“There—­have been—­so many queer things,” she faltered.  Then Betty knew there was some special thing she was afraid to talk about, and that if she desired to obtain illuminating information it would be well to go into the matter.

“Try,” she said, “to remember some particular incident.”

Lady Anstruthers looked nervous.

“Rosy,” in the level voice, “there has been a particular incident—­and I would rather hear of it from you than from him.”

Rosy’s lap held little shaking hands.

“He has held it over me for years,” she said breathlessly.  “He said he would write about it to father and mother.  He says he could use it against me as evidence in—­in the divorce court.  He says that divorce courts in America are for women, but in England they are for men, and—­he could defend himself against me.”

The incongruity of the picture of the small, faded creature arraigned in a divorce court on charges of misbehaviour would have made Betty smile if she had been in smiling mood.

“What did he accuse you of?”

“That was the—­the unexpected thing,” miserably.

Betty took the unsteady hands firmly in her own.

“Don’t be afraid to tell me,” she said.  “He knew you so well that he understood what would terrify you the most.  I know you so well that I understand how he does it.  Did he do this unexpected thing just before you wrote to father for the money?” As she quite suddenly presented the question, Rosy exclaimed aloud.

“How did you know?” she said.  “You—­you are like a lawyer.  How could you know?”

How simple she was!  How obviously an easy prey!  She had been unconsciously giving evidence with every word.

“I have been thinking him over,” Betty said.  “He interests me.  I have begun to guess that he always wants something when he professes that he has a grievance.”

Then with drooping head, Rosy told the story.